An Exarch's Vengeance
by 01SilverDragon01
Summary: While a Daemon laugh, an Exarch will seek to take vengeance. A warlock reads of an oncoming doom, and seek out the one destined to either stop it, or bring about a scourge of all living. And shadows moving in darkness are brining the puzzles together. For better, or worse...
1. Chapter 1

Looking out of the viewport, he could see the pieces of his once home, slowly drifting apart. He suspected that if he were someone else, he would feel the grief sure to follow this loss. Yet he only felt the pure hatred he had felt every moment he was awake. His supposed 'weakness'. As all the others like him, he had been branded weak, and unable to control his bloodlust. They needed those like him, but they were hidden away, living in their personal shrines.

He looked out again. A craftworld lost. And not even dead and abandoned, but splintered and destroyed, the Infinity Circuit broken, all of the eldar souls lost to the Great Enemy. He looked back through his memories, the memories once belonging to those who had given themselves so that he might fight again. Walking through the Dome of Midnights Beauty with the girl, he loved. The joy of seeing the Garden of Silent Tears, after returning from the Outcasts path. And a memory from the most recent person to give him life.

* * *

 _Pride surged through his body when he looked at his work. Not-Karanlon had spent months preparing the design, making sure that each and every part would be perfect. And then had spent another couple of months, calling each part into existence separately, to make sure that nothing went wrong. Weeks spent assembling it, and summoning more wraithbone to strengthen it. So much time and energy put into this one shuriken catapult, that it would be bordering on obsession. Of course he knew better. Not-Karanlon had taken up the project. In the start, he hoped the better design would catch on, and would help protect more eldar lives. He had understandably beamed with pride when the Autarch, Yldaleth, the leading Autarch on craftworld Al-Samah, had taken interest in the weapon. And here he was. On his way to present it to the Autarch, as requested. If she liked it, the design could be made a standard on Al-Samah. Though in his daydreaming he didn't notice the transport vehicle heading the other way. And so they collided._

 _He woke up in the care of the Healers. A healer stood there, a look of sorrow donning her features. He only had to look at the table besides the bed, to see why. There in several broken pieces, lay his shuriken catapult. The healer explained how the Autarch had been on her way to check on his progress, and how they had collided, crushing the catapult. Of course, he was only half-listening, too busy staring at his broken masterpiece. He didn't even bother taking the pieces with him. Cold fury coursed through his veins. He walked through the halls of the craftworld, hearing the hushed tones of the eldar around him. Not that he cared what they thought. He found his mind scanning each part of the halls, looking for something to use to his advantage. Something that could help him regain something inside of him, lost. He only came to himself when he stood before a gateway, the rune of the Dire Avengers, clearly decorating the entrance._

* * *

He looked up and silently chuckled. It was a cold thing, somehow holding a promise of pain to those around him, if there were any. He found it funny how easily it was to remember the things, which put his earlier lives into Khaine's hateful embrace, while everything else was closer to a dream. Not-Karanlon would use this memory to fuel his rage. But to Gilfarion, this memory was nothing. It wasn't his loss. Indeed, this experience had put Not-Karanlon onto the path the would reawaken Gilfarion. Where other Exarchs welcomed the Sleep, for some rest from the eternal rage, Gilfarion found the Sleep to be tedious. He was a warrior, and every minute not spend in a fight or preparing, was wasted. Although he didn't blame them. To be eternally fighting, to be eternally gripped by hate, could be seen as a bleak life. But to him, it was exactly the life he wanted. This was just one of the things that made him stand apart from other Exarchs. They would call him unhinged or too aggressive. He would accuse them of holding back. The eldar's position was too weak as it is. They had to become stronger and crush their opponents. That is what he had always sought to teach his students.

* * *

 _He looked on in interest as two of his students, Elsarwen and Bararith, spared. Ever since they met, they've had a never-ending competition to prove themselves the better one. He nodded in acknowledgement at good use of terrain by Elsarwen. The only downside being that she always did this. In a matter of seconds, she laid on her back, with Bararith blade at her throat. He was glad, or at least as close as he could be, that they heeded his advice of using real blades in their fights. Pain was among the best instructors. Bararith helped in his beaten opponent up, and they both gave a light bow in recognition of their Exarch. He felt them go to another part of the sparring area, presumably to give each other advice to better their technique. He himself went to another part of the shrine to…_

* * *

He turned around as he heard a knock on the door. Inviting the visitor inside, he was met by one of the crewmen of the ship.

"The last ships are being loaded with what can be salvaged. We will soon be ready to depart. Autarch Yldaleth has requested your presence, once we depart."

He noticed the crewman was slightly unnerved, most probable because of the proximity of an Exarch. He gave a quick nod, in acknowledgement, and then turned back to the viewport as the crewman left to bring the message to the other Exarchs who made it out.

Made it out. So much had been lost. He suspected many eldars would be drawn into the embrace of the Bloody-handed, in the near future. Their training would be varied, depending on the Exarch they end up with. He had always despised those Exarchs that took on many students. Not caring for the process, or the finer details. He considered all of his students a work of art. Much work was put into each and everyone. He tought them all that he could. That which he was tought so many millenia ago, what he had learned from countless wars, and what he had learned through studying other Aspects. This pratice had always been frowned upon. Some even saw him as a thief for it.

As he felt the ship begin to move, he turned and made his way towards the space cleared for this occasion. The Autarch owed him an explanation.

* * *

 _He could feel it all. The dome collapsing from the impact of a crashing ship. The thousands of Eldar dying every minute. The screaming of the Infinity Circuit as it's torn apart. Yet it all died out to a sound that revertebrated the hull, haunted every corridor and could be heard with ears as well as mind. The sound of a laughing Daemon as centuries of planning comes to fruition._

 ** _Author's Note_**

 **Ok, so this story has been in my head for awhile now, slowly taking form and manifesting as of yet, this prologue.**

 **As a disclaimer I don't own Warhammer 40k(GW does), except my own characters.**

 **Now this is basicly a test to see what the feeling is about this story. So comment your thoughts. I will take time to look through them, and answer questions(atleast as many I can).**

 **SD signing off...**


	2. Chapter 2

_Sword of Kahine, Flame Dragon-Ship - Yldaleth_

Yldaleth felt devastated. As an Autarch, she was responsible for keeping the Craftworld safe. Yet here she stood, one of the few of the Craftoworld's leaders still alive, evacuating those eldar who survived. Every eldar of Al-Samah would go through trying times, and she was to blame. It was now her responsibility to announce to the Exarchs, their plans for the future.

The seer council of Craftworld Ulthwe had contacted them, offering shelter. With no choice left, they'd accepted and were now on their way to a nearby webgate, big enough for their entire fleet. All of the Exarchs would have to prepare for building new shrines, and take on more disciples. Now more than ever, she wished Laethorn stood there with her. As the only other Autarch of the Craftworld, he too had been responsible for managing the defense. And as had happened many times both leading up to the battle, and even before it, they underestimated their foes. Laethorn and his advisors had been attacked in their shelter slaughtering his warlock bodyguards, and reducing him to less than ash. And as every other spirit stone, they had failed in getting him back. She herself had also been attacked, although she'd managed to escape and find a new place to plan the battle from.

Looking to her sides, Beltevar and Kaymon, her surviving bodyguards, stood to support her. Usually this hall were to be used to brief the Exarchs for an upcoming battle. And looking at the door, she could see that said Exarchs were still flooding in and taking their respective places. They had all taken off their armor and changed into their tabards, each showing the symbol unique to their shrines. She even recognized some of her old Exarchs, those she had trained under when she was younger. Belhynn of the Shining Spears, Tenvae of the Howling Banshees and Faenthanil of the Dark Reapers. She nodded respectfully to them, and turned her gaze back to the door.

He was instantly recognizable, as the only one still donned in his armor. It was the face, however, that drew her attention. She felt a spike of guilt, before she quickly suppressed it. That thing walking there were not the promising Bone Singer she met many years ago. She was saddened that she was partly to blame for driving him down the warrior's path, but she was furious when he became lost on the path and went on to be the cause for His reawakening. Looking at him, she could see that he himself was also furious. Well, more than usual. Seeing the last exarchs take their place, she began.

"Exarchs, today is a day of fury and mourning. This is a loss, from which we can never recover. Not before we once again can lay claim to the galaxy. We are the remains of Al-Samah, and this great loss in exarchs that you can see around you, is reflected across the entire fleet. As we shed tears, and promise vengeance for those lost, we've been granted help from our kin of Craftworld Ulthwe. They have invited us to settle with them, offering us sanctuary when we have none. Those of us on the leading council, have decided to accept, and we are presently on route to a nearby webgate to..."

* * *

To say Gilfarion was not glad about what he was hearing would be an understatement. First their negligence, now abandonment? Did they not owe those who had fallen, to avenge them? To make sure their sacrifice was not in vain.

Looking up at Yldaleth, he still didn't understand how she had come to this. He remembered a time when her own instincts were enough to guide her. Now she bowed to the whims of the farseers. The same farseers who believed they knew more of war, just by divining the future. How many times had they not been warned? It was sickening seeing Yldaleth still listening to their words.

As she finished, the exarchs headed out. Some would most likely go to find their students, while those who had none left would return to their chambers. Gilfarion stayed, however. It was time to talk.

* * *

As she was heading over to him, she was idly wondering what he wanted. She dismissed her bodyguards, and stood in front of him. He had a look of cold fury, with an aura of disapproval. Most of the wounds he had suffered had been taken care of by the healers, though there were still some scrapes on his face. His blond hair also looked like it needed some caring.

"There is something you wish to say", she stated.

"You have failed."

She tensed up. She could feel the lingering effect of Khaine's hatred, compelling her to do something about this blatant disrespect. She took a few moments and said, "And you forget your place. It is not now we should fight. We have lost too much."

"Had it not been for you mindlessly following the farseers every order, we could have prevailed. The farseers chose the place to do battle. That they trusted their runes too much and chose the Craftworld, only proves how we cannot allow others to dictate, when we know better."

"IT IS THE FARSEERS WHO SAVED US! IF IT WEREN*T FOR THEM, THERE WOULD BE NO ELDAR!"

"And we have chosen to lay our fates in their hands for it. Look where that path have taken us."

She stayed silent. She did not want to do this now. The silence reigned for a bit, before Gilfarion broke it.

"I'll stay no longer."

She looked at him, tilting her head in confusion.

"I am done with all this. The last of my pupils succumbed. Your decision will leave them, and all the others unavenged. This cannot stand. _I_ shall deliver vengeance."

He turned towards the door, and just before he rounded the corner, she cast one final glance at the fourth of her old mentors.

* * *

 _Craftworld Ulthwe_

The room was unnaturally dark, only illuminated just enough to see the two individuals sitting, facing each other. Around them, runes had been drawn, circling the entire room multiple times. Right in the middle, between the two warlocks, a number of small colored crystals lay, each engraved with runes. The warlocks were sitting, deeply contemplating what the runes were saying.

"This is beyond what I had expected", the first one said.

The second one only nodded.

"The farseers will make the announcement soon", the first one tried again.

The second one looked up from the runes.

 _A Craftworld lost to those never born_

 _The hated shall retrace the steps_

 _A weapon of the lost_

 _Destruction guided by the dead_

"Ilnera, we need to take this to the farseers", the second one stated.

Ilnera tilted her head in acknowledgement, though he could also see doubt.

"You hold doubt?" the second one asked.

"There is much more yet to be revealed, than what has been shown. The farseers are seeking to incorporate the survivors of Al-Samah into Ulthwe. Their time is taken, and cannot also be burdened with this."

Now it was Amorar's turn to be confused. "You believe we should not tell them?"

"No, but instead of taking it to the Council, we should seek out a single farseer. Perhaps they will be able to assist us understand this."

"You've already thought of one?"

Once again, she showed acknowledgement. "Farseer Helonin."

"Then let's go."

Amorar gathered the runes, while Ilnera contacted the farseer. As they agreed to a place to meet, Amorar's thoughts wandered back to a particular part of the vision.

 _He saw himself. Around him, was a bloodbath. An old one. Years old. The corpses, or rather the parts still there, were interesting however. Humans. Scattered everywhere. He recognized the weapon marks. They had fallen by eldar hands._

 _Suddenly the vision version of him crouched down, blade held at ready. The Striking Shadow. Though it had been long since he were with the Scorpions, their training still came naturally._

 _But just as he turned to see what he was looking at, the vision ended._

Shaking his head, Amorar headed out the door.

 **Author's Note**

 **I have discovered that I am not the best in putting out chapters. So I apologize for that.**

 **Don't own 40k, only own creations.**

 **SD signing off...**


	3. Chapter 3

**Craftworld Ulthwe**

Standing before farseer Helonin, he was once again reminded of just how powerful the farseers felt. Even here, surrounded by the Infinity Circuit, he could still feel the farseers potent psychic powers pulsing. Having just finished telling him of their vision, he stood in careful consideration, while they waited for him to give voice to his thoughts.

They currently stood in a chamber utilized by the farseers to divine the meaning of prophecies. The chamber was spacy, holding enough room for advisors to assist the farseer, if needed. Sitting commendations were available, grown out of the wraithbone floor.

"Are there any more to this prophecy?" the farseer asked.

Amorar felt the psychic energies projected from Ilnera as she shared the vision they had seen. Helonin closed his eyes, giving the vision all of his attention, looking at every single detail, searching for any hidden meanings they could have overlooked. The farseers had centuries if not millennia of experience and a unique relationship with the art of divination, so having a farseer look over a prophecy would always be a boon.

"I know this planet," Helonin finally said. "It was a sanctuary for the Great Enemy until it was wiped out by our kin of Al-Samah. I cannot see how they tie into this, but it seems our cause of action will be to wait for their arrival. "

The two warlocks bowed to the farseer's wisdom and left the farseer to search for more clues.

* * *

 **Sword of Khaine**

Sleep. She just wanted a . She had gotten a small window after the meeting with the exarchs, yet she had been unable to sleep. Too many echoing screams of the dying. Now she was on her way to another meeting with the remnants of the ruling council. She was going through the corridors of the ship, trying to not look to beaten. The mariners and guardians gave a small bow as she went by, before carrying on with whatever they were doing. She wondered if they hated her. Would she blame them? She hadn't reached a conclusion when she arrived at the meeting room.

It hadn't been built for this purpose. It was intended as a place to talk with delegates of foreign powers. Now it would be used to discuss their own safety.

The others already here looked just as tired as she felt and she spared a quick thought as to whether she had the same hopeless look. She greeted the others as an equal and took her seat.

With her sat the Supreme Admiral Oralath and the farseers Menyl and Onesya.

"Admiral, how close are we to the gate?" Menyl asked the admiral.

"We are nearing the webgate and all ships are prepared to transfer, honoured farseer." Oralath answered him.

"Good. Are the exarchs ready?" Onesya asked Yldaleth.

"The exarchs stand ready to defend the fleet from the drukhari. However, many aspect warriors are having trouble donning their war-masks. They will need rest to reignite Khaine's hatred." She were about to add something but held her mouth.

"Something you wish to say, autarch?" Menyl inquired. Never could hide much from the farseers.

"I spoke with my old mentor, exarch Gilfarion. He blames you for what has happened. He's chosen to leave us. He believes he will avenge the lost."

"And what do you think, autarch?"

To this, she was confused. The farseers should already know what she thought. Was it a test? To see if she was honest?

"The wayward exarch has chosen a path that will destroy him. I'm more concerned about the other exarchs. If they too will begin questioning your decisions."

A smile crossed the lips of Menyl. It was a smile she donned when someone were in need of guidance.

"Do not worry about them, Yldaleth. They will understand our situation, and they will serve our people in our time of need. As for your old mentor. As you yourself said, he will only bring destruction on himself. He has burdened you for too long with his distrust. He thought you weak, yet he is the one leaving. Now go, see to the preparation of the exarchs."

"As you wish, honored farseer."

Yldaleth left the room. They were right. She had a job to do, and contemplating the decisions of Gilfarion would only get in her way.

* * *

He knew he had to travel light. He would need a vehicle as well. Something fast. Preferably, something like… that! As he approached the scout jetbike, he quickly went over the things he had packed for the journey. On his back, he carried a bag filled with food and water. Though he might be lost in Khaine's sight he still needed sustenance. On his belt he carried plasma grenades and spare ammunition for the shuriken catapult mounded on his armors vambrace. In his hand, he carried the power glaive he'd used since his tutoring under the phoenix lord. Quickly loading his bag and fastening his power glaive to the side, he looked around to make sure the vehicle bay was empty. Everything should be ready for transit, but there were always someone behind schedule. Not seeing anybody, he finished loading and mounted the bike.

He'd only used a jetbike once, some two or three millennia ago, but he'd like to actually get somewhere. Booting it up, he took out a map of the webway. He didn't know where his prey was, but everything he knew about it spoke of looking back at what they might have missed in the past. The craftworld has faced the Great Enemy's worshippers only a few decades before their attack. Hopefully, there'd be some clue there as to where he could begin. Packing away his map, he activated a webgate and set off.

* * *

 **Unknown**

Dead bodies. Dead bodies everywhere. Fallen, yet laying in a beautiful pattern, ancient stains of blood working into the pattern like the coloring of a painting.

"You're just gonna stand there and enjoy the scenery or are you coming?" A voice called out, though the source were nowhere to be seen.

The first figure headed off and once again, the land became quiet.

 **A/N**

 **...**

 **...**

 **That took some time. School mostly. Otherwise something was always in the way.**

 **...**

 **I don't own 40k, only my own characters.**

 **SD signing off...**


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